A Cup of Kindness Yet
by Genevievey
Summary: Zoey Barkow is having a terrible New Year's Eve, until she crosses paths with a rather-more-than-tipsy Dr. O'Hara.


_AUTHOR'S NOTE: I've just discovered 'Nurse Jackie', and have absolutely fallen for the characters - particularly O'Hara and Zoey, and their funny little relationship. So, the following is a hastily-written excuse for a scene between them - very fluffy, but hopefully also believable, and set sometimes around S1 or 2. (There may also be very slight O'HaraxZoey undertones - though femslash isn't something I've attempted, I've read some wonderful O'HaraxZoey fics, and I think they really work together, in all sorts of ways. Anyway.)_

_Do let me know if you think I'm on the right track!_

**A Cup of Kindness Yet**

"HA-PPY NEW YEAR!"  
"Woo! Yeaaaah!"  
"_Should aaauld acquaintance beee forgot_…how does the rest go again?"

The world around Zoey Barkow was one giant glittery ball of New Year's celebrations – and her spirits had dropped long before the countdown. Tagging along with a large group for New Year's in Manhattan had sounded super exciting and totally glamorous…but then, Zoey should've factored in her capacity for getting lost in crowds. Or, for being lost, actively, by others, perhaps…ugh. So here she was, on Some-Street-and-Something, New York City – all dressed up with only home to go to. And how…

"Zoey? Zoey! _Mon ange_!"  
The voice was a raised one, and merry, with clipped British diction that would have been crystal, had it not been just slightly slurred. There was no mistaking who it belonged to. Zoey whirled around, nearly colliding with a passer-by.  
"Dr. O'Hara?"  
"_Zoey_!"  
The doctor was suddenly upon her, appearing at her elbow and casting bare arms merrily about her neck in an enthusiastic hug. Between that, the hug's unsteadiness, and a distinct whiff of scotch, it didn't take long for Zoey to gather the essentials of the situation.

"Dr. O'Hara! What are you doing here? I mean…Happy New Year! But…shouldn't you be at some incredible party?"  
"Was," the doctor replied, keeping one arm around Zoey's shoulders in order to lean against her, and casting a mild gaze around the street. "Am no longer. Ex showed up with some divine new creature, and just as I was making a dignified exit I went and broke the bloody heel of my bloody shoe! And they were bloody lovely! Look!"

O'Hara leaned away in order to show Zoey the damaged remains of her beautiful Manolo Blahniks, pouting for extra effect. It was no effort for the girl to make appropriately sympathetic noises: either one of the two disasters would have been traumatic enough. (No wonder the doctor had decided to drown her sorrows). And it was some comfort to think that even someone as chic and together as Dr. O'Hara sometimes had a shitty New Year's Eve as well.

"Well, if it's any consolation, I got ditched this evening – deliberately or accidentally I'm not quite sure, but either way I'm essentially stranded. Beached. _Buggered_, as some might say," Zoey sighed, inflecting that last word with her best (passable) impression of a British accent.  
"My, you've obviously been keeping elegant company," O'Hara drawled (never one to pass up an opportunity for self-compliment), then gave the nurse a brisk pat on the back. "Well, chin up, dearie. What say you and I make an evening of it, eh? I _must_ be better company than some adolescent twits from Staten Island – am I not?"  
"Oh, _totally_," Zoey replied, without hesitation and with considerable earnestness. "But, by 'making a night of it', I hope you mean sharing a taxi home…because…well, I think given the state of…your shoes…it might be for the best."

O'Hara rolled her eyes, though more in amusement than disgust.  
"Honestly, youth these days. When I was twenty, you couldn't keep our lot away from the booze, or the nightlife. Or the strictly-off-limits dean's club. But perhaps you're right. Wooo, yes, I think you might be," the woman conceded, as she made to take a step for the first time in some minutes, and found the ground less stable than it ought to be.  
"Oop," Zoey grinned, catching her under the arms, and trying not to be too obviously thrilled at the prospect of sharing such a vulnerable, personal experience with _Dr. O'Hara_. On New Year's Eve, no less. This was proper bonding stuff. And O'Hara really did seem to need her – as a leaning-post, if nothing else.

"Hey, there's no way you can walk in those shoes – and it's gonna be a way to walk before we can find a cab. Look, you've already ground down the broken stub from the heel – it's all wonky. And, no offence, but your balance isn't at best right now anyway."  
"You may be right, young lady, but I am _not_ exposing my freshly pedi-ed bare feet to the streets of New York."  
"Of course not, Dr. O'Hara. Here," the nurse unzipped her shoulder-bag and fished about inside, clumsily retrieving a pair of pale pink Crocs.  
"You must be more inebriated than _I_ am if you think I'm going to wear those…monstrosities!"  
"Oh, come on…just till we find a cab. It's not like you have a million other options. And honestly, they are the most comfortable footwear _ever_."  
"Christ. Necessity is the mother of mortification… Alright, assist me."  
Under such regally-given orders, and smirking quietly to herself, Zoey crouched down – setting aside the Manolo Blahniks and guiding Dr. O'Hara's beautifully-pedicured feet into her trusty pink Crocs.

"See," the girl smiled chummily, standing upright again, "don't your feet feel so much better?"  
O'Hara fixed her with a slightly distrustful look, then took a few tentative steps…and her eyebrows raised in genuine surprise.  
"These are, in fact…_incredibly comfortable_. Presumably because I can't actually _see_ them from here – nor much of anything else very clearly, for that matter." She turned to squint at her companion. "How many fingers are you holding up?"  
"I'm not holding up any."  
"There we go then. May I take your arm? _Mademoiselle_?"  
"_Enchanté_, Doctor O'Hara."

And so it was that the two of them weaved their way through the streets and the pressing crowd – until, by sheer miracle, a taxi was obtained.  
"Ugh, thank you so much," Zoey sighed, climbing into the back seat after Dr. O'Hara.  
"Where to?" the driver nodded. O'Hara turned to face her young companion.  
"Does my memory serve me when I recall that you live with your mother?"  
"Yup."  
"Somewhere horribly far away too, I imagine. And this poor chap must be having the shift of his nightmares. Why don't you just stay at mine for the evening, hmm? Instead of trawling all the way back to…Queens, or wherever it is you live. I have a supremely comfortable leather couch, cashmere blankets, and the most effective hangover cure known to Brit or New Yorker. What do you say?"  
Zoey was making an admirable effort to contain her excitement – and to supress the feeling that perhaps she was taking advantage of Dr. O'Hara, who would surely never be quite _this_ nice to a goofy student nurse if she'd been anything close to sober.  
"I say…awesome! And thanks! Thank you very very much."

The cab journey turned out to be the most entertaining of Zoey's young life – as it transpired that the cabbie was in fact a compatriot of O'Hara's. (He came from somewhere outside London…Hemel Hempstead, or something). By the time they got through the traffic to O'Hara's neighbourhood, the three of them were giving a raucous rendition of old Cockney drinking songs. (For his cheerful compliance and memory for lyrics, the cabbie was handsomely tipped).

"_I'm 'er eighth old man called 'enery, 'enery the Eighth I am! (Cor blimey!)_...Oof, here we go...Ta-da!"  
Dr. O'Hara flung open the door to her hotel apartment with high theatricality, ushering her guest inside. As the lights came on Zoey gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. "Oh my _gosh_! This _place_…"

"Yes, yes, Aladdin's cave and all that," the doctor waved one hand about dismissively, weaving her way across the room to a linen cupboard. "Now...there's the couch...here are your blankets, and a pillow, and... Well, go on! Make yourself comfortable!"  
Grinning to herself at her hostess's almost overbearing hospitality, Zoey obediently put her legs up on the expansive leather couch, and began to arrange the blankets over herself.  
"And here," O'Hara continued, "is a nice big glass of water."  
"I think you're a little confused about which one of us needs looking after right now, Dr. O'Hara."  
"Nonsense - I haven't been confused since 2001. Oh, look, you don't even know how to tuck yourself in. Here, lie down."  
Zoey tried valiantly not to actually giggle, as a still-slightly-swaying Dr. O'Hara bent over her, tucking the blanket snugly around her body. "I've always been the best tucker-inner-er," she confided, with a wink. "My sister is absolutely hopeless."

O'Hara made to stand up and step backwards then – but a little too quickly, and a little too close to the adjacent coffee table. (Later, Zoey would put it down to her inexperience walking in Crocs. While drunk). At any rate, one way or another, the elegant Eleanor O'Hara ended up over-balancing, and landing on her couch and her guest. Zoey squealed in surprise, and then started to laugh. What an evening…

"Oop! Oh, bollocks… And _I've_ never been the best balancer, when under the influence. Apologies."  
The doctor tensed her muscles to move, and then fell limp again, heaving an exhausted sigh.  
"Say, would you mind _awfully_ if..."  
Zoey smiled, loosening the blanket around her, to drape some of it over the lithe woman sprawled half across her.  
"Not at all, Dr. O'Hara. Not at all."


End file.
